


Of Cracked Ice and Bodice Rippers

by zoemathemata



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hypothermia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/"><b>hoodie_time</b></a> challenge! Prompt 92 - Originally prompted by: <a href="http://starryfif2.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://starryfif2.livejournal.com/"><b>starryfif2</b></a> <i>Dean, while hunting something with Sam/Castiel, gets thrown and lands on thin ice. The ice cracks. Dean falls through, and gets rescued. He needs CPR because he isn't breathing. Sam/Castiel give Dean his coat(if it's Sam)or trench-coat(If it's Castiel). The ever popular cliched snuggling ensues. Bonus points if they're hunting a yeti. Bonus BONUS points if Sam/Castiel get Dean a cup of hot cocoa. IDK: I find the idea of Dean drinking hot chocolate cute. Don't judge me! Can be Wincest or Castiel/Dean, or gen; whatever suits the author, though I do admit I like Dean getting kisses.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cracked Ice and Bodice Rippers

He hits the ice hard, sliding, and at first he thinks the cracking sound he hears is bone and all that runs through his brain is, _fucking great, broken collarbone again_. Because those are a bitch to heal. But then he realizes that there’s not nearly enough pain, and actually, there’s not that much pain at all.

His slide lurches to a stop and he starts to scramble his feet beneath him, brain power focused on _SamSammySam needs help_ but before he can get his limbs straightened out and under him, a large, heavy object lands next to him with a similar cracking sound. Black blood drips out from the large wooden stake stuck in the heart of the vampire and it beads on the ice, spilling around like mercury balls.

Ah, he loves the smell of dead vampire in the moonlight. In the daylight. Hell, any time of a day is a good time of day if you’ve got a dead bloodsucker on your hands.

He glances up and sees Sam standing on the rock edge, puffs of hot air coming out like steam in the frigid night. If it wasn’t hellishly and bitingly cold, if they weren’t hunting in the dark _and_ if he had a better winter coat than his leather jacket, it might, maybe, _possibly_ be somewhat picturesque. Sam framed by a full moon, all angular and bulky, impressive in his size, exhaling billowy white clouds of carbon dioxide and used oxygen. The ice is silver and bright, the moon so clear and crisp that it hurts to look at it.

He hears the snap-crack sound again and frowns as he pushes hands down to get himself to his feet. He’s in a crouch when he hears Sam yell. _Dean, Stop, Don’t, Wait._

There’s a loud splintering noise and the vampire gets sucked under the water, like a hell-hole has just opened up underneath him and siphoned him straight downstairs. Dead weight with no air in the lungs to make him buoyant, he disappears quickly. Dean’s eyes widen as his predicament suddenly becomes clear to him. His immediately stops his upward movement and slowly, so slowly, starts to lower himself back down to the ice, planning on flattening himself out star-shaped, spreading out his body weight as much as possible. Then he’ll only have to wait for Sam to toss him a rope and drag him across the surface to dry land.

He gets his belly down to the ice, front of his thighs pressed up against the cold. It’s not painfully cold yet, but it will be. Right now it’s just the surprising sting of “Wow, that’s _cold_.” He doesn’t bother looking for Sam, knowing that his brother is already running to the car to get the rope and then finding a good spot to toss it out. Dean knows he only has to focus on his part of the equation, _stay above water_ , and trusts Sam to do the rest. He spreads his arms out, like a snow angel and he smirks, the thought of ‘angel’ immediately making him think of Castiel. And if that won’t keep him warm, he doesn’t know what will.

His feet fall into the water, the ice giving way not so much with a crack as with a swoosh and it’s like a domino effect and although he knows he shouldn’t flail about madly, and that would be _bad, very bad_ the amphibian part of his brain knows no such thing. It only knows _cold cold cold, so cold it hurts_ , and he’s sliding off and falling through at the same time. It’s so frigid that his lungs contract madly, making a deep breath impossible. He can hear his gasping hitches and he has no control. He tries to take a deep breath, not getting more than a shallow gasp in, over and over, again and again. He’s kicking his feet and trying to tread water, but his steel toe boots are too heavy, joints thick and stiff from clothing and cold.

He knows he’s thrashing like an idiot, his hands trying to find purchase on the edge of the ice. But he can’t stop himself as animal instinct overrides his brain. He has a sudden stupid thought that he really should have bought those gloves that Sam tossed at him at the army surplus store instead of making a face and tossing them back. He’s grappling for the edge but the ice is too thin and it breaks and breaks and breaks. If he could keep it up for half an hour he might get to land, but he knows he doesn’t have that kind of time. His fingers have become useless extensions of his ineffectual hands and hopeless arms. And the _pain_. He’s surprised by the pain. It’s sharp and prickly, pulling the heat out of his body in knife-edged slices. His left hamstring cramps up and he can’t move his leg.

He opens his mouth to call for Sam, call for Cas, just make a noise, any noise. But he can’t speak, short hitching breaths pushing in and out of his lungs in a mad staccato.

He’s underwater and he’s not sure how long he’s been underwater. He can’t figure out what happened and he thrashes his arms and legs. Or at least, he thinks he does. He can’t tell if they’re moving.

And then he doesn’t think anything anymore.

* * * * *

Sam’s legs are pistons in a fine tuned machine. Up, down, up, down. He knows he’s fast. Faster than Dean. Dean has stamina, but Sam has speed. Dean can out run Sam, out last Sam, but Sam has always been able to out pace Dean, ever since his first big growth spurt at thirteen. He runs ragged down the tree-line at the kind of breakneck pace that makes your heart and stomach do little flip flops and threatens to topple you ass over tea kettle at any moment.

Unless you’re Sam Winchester, in which case, you’re used to this speed.

He makes it to the car and stops dead. Fucking keys! Dean’s got the keys. Without another thought, Sam pulls out his gun and shoots the driver side window. Dean can yell at him later, ( _please let him yell at me later_ ). Sam reaches in, pops the trunk and then he’s at the back of the Impala, he has the rope and he’s running again.

He breaks through the tree-line, rope slung over his shoulder, breath puffing out and stops dead.

He can’t see Dean.

He was fast, he _knows_ he was fast and Dean was above water when he left, but now… he’s just gone. Without thinking, he takes a couple of mad steps out onto the lake, eyes scanning. And then he hears the tell-tale pop of ice breaking and he scurries back to the shore. Panic pulls at his chest. He can’t see Dean, he can’t _find_ him. He’s suddenly eight years old again and he doesn’t know what to do _Deandeandeandean_.

He drops the rope with a soft thump in the powdery snow, and tugs his glove off with his teeth. He fumbles with stiff fingers, yanking out his phone and gets the number wrong twice, cursing loudly, before he gets it right.

He doesn’t know where Castiel is when he’s not with them, or how the whole angelic cell phone works ( _… joking with Dean… ‘Is he roaming? Does he have a data plan? Where does the bill go?’ Dean laughs low and throaty, ‘I dunno man, maybe his dad pays for it…’_ ) and right now, he doesn’t care. Relief floods his body when he hears Castiel’s timbre on the other end of the phone.

“Sam.”

Sam rattles of their location in a rush of breath and sucks in another deep one. “Dean’s fallen in, it’s freezing and I can’t find him.” The last part came out on a shout, his voice echoing off the rock face.

A hand falls on his shoulder, firm and solid and Sam spins around.

“Where?” asks Castiel, his eyes already searching the body of water.

Sam points. “About 5 yards from the rock face, 50 yards out. A vampire fell in too, so don’t get the wrong… ” _don’t say body don’t say body_ “Don’t get it wrong.”

Castiel steps out on to the ice and Sam doesn’t hear it crack. The angel walks forward, determined and sure, and the thin sheet of frozen water holds his weight without a sound. Sam doesn’t care how it works as long as it fucking works. Castiel strides to where Sam pointed, coat billowing with the speed of his steps, he doesn’t feel the cold. It’s quiet. It’s _so_ quiet. Bad quiet, scary quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you chuckle awkwardly and spookily to yourself just to hear something. And if he thought it was cold before, it’s colder now. Now that he knows Dean is underwater somewhere. They thought they were lucky hunting a vampire in this kind of cold and not a ghost. _Bloodsucker, Sammy, nice and easy. Good thing too, I fucking hate digging up graves in the winter._. Tonight is moving up the scale of _Worst Moments in Sam Winchester’s Life_ ferociously, clawing it’s way easily into the top ten.

Castiel looks ghostly and strange in the silver moonlight. Alien. Humans can’t move in the cold like he can. He’s graceful and smooth despite the bitter temperature. If Sam didn’t know he was really there, he would think Castiel was a spirit, the way he glides over the ice without a sound. Castiel is looking down at the frosty surface and even from his distance, Sam can see his face frowning in concentration. He’s hunched over, squinting. He peers, he gazes, he moves on. He stops and stares, he steps forward and stops again. Sam holds his breath.

Castiel goes down on one knee and with a hard punch, drives his fist through the ice, a large splash spiking up. The angel sinks his arm into the water, up to his shoulder and pulls upward. Sam sees a hand come out of the water, pale and silvery in the night light and then both Castiel and his brother are back on the shore, the angel laying him down on the rocky surface.

Sam grabs Dean’s shoulders and shakes him roughly, shouting his name twice. Nothing. He slaps Dean.

Sam doesn’t want to look look ( _blue lips, dark circles under the eyes, pale skin_ ) so he focuses on pressing his fingers to Dean’s artery where he can’t feel anything but slick coldness and frozen skin. He knows that doesn’t mean there’s not a heart beat, not for certain, but still…

“He is not breathing.” Castiel has his hand on Dean’s chest and he can’t feel the steady rise and fall of Dean breathing, nor can he discern a heartbeat.

Sam tilts Dean’s head back and pinches his nose and looks up at Castiel.

“You watch me do this so you know how.”

Castiel’s eyes are like a predator’s watching its prey; the focus with which he watches Sam should be scary. Sam finds it comforting.

Sam sucks in a huge breath, leans forward and fastens his mouth over Dean’s blue lips, exhaling sharply until he sees Dean’s chest rise slowly. He turns his head to the side, feels and hears the breath exhale out of Dean’s mouth as his lungs deflate. He waits to hear an inhale. Nothing. He breathes deep again, exhales, watches Dean’s chest rise, listens, watches Dean’s chest fall. Waits. Inhale, exhale, watch, nothing.

He looks at Castiel. “Can you do this?” he barks sharply, not even waiting for the angel to nod before he shifts his position, kneeling by Dean’s hips. Castiel takes up position by Dean’s head and pinches Dean’s nose, a perfect imitation of Sam.

Sam doesn’t look up as he talks. “When I say ‘breathe,’ you breathe in his mouth, then you listen, just like you saw me do.” He unzips Dean’s jacket and pushes it open, feels gently with his fingertips for a moment and then settles the heel of one hand on Dean’s sternum, his other hand on top. “If you hear him breathe in, you yell at me to stop.”

Sam’s always been paradoxically thankful and horrified by his enormous brain. The same brain that is currently pulling out CPR procedure ( _check airway, pinch nose shut, cover mouth, breathe in, wait for inhale, compress chest one and half to two inches, 100 compressions in a minute, that’s 50 in half a minute, that’s slightly more than one a second, 30 compressions until next breath..._ is also pulling out the statistics and details ( _without oxygen brain death begins in four minutes and is usually complete after ten..._ ). He pushes down on Dean’s chest and can feel the resistance of bone and muscle beneath his palms. It feels like if he could _hear_ the bones, they would be squeaking under the pressure. Groaning under the weight of Sam pressing down on them. He counts in his head, _and one and two and three and four..._. He doesn’t hear Dean’s rib crack, Sam’s own pulse and breathing is too loud in his ears, but he feels it in the sensitive flesh of his palm. Small, sharp snap. He winces but doesn’t stop. Thirty.

“Breathe.” His voice is strangely flat. Castiel breathes into Dean’s mouth, turns his ear to listen, his eyes lock on Sam. They are statues, waiting for their creator to break them from their marble. Castiel’s head jerks once sharply to the side in negation. Sam starts compressions again. One, two, three…

By Castiel’s third breath, Dean still hasn’t moved, and Sam thinks he’s might have cracked another of Dean’s ribs with the force of his compressions. But he can’t stop, he doesn’t think he can ever stop. They can’t have gone through all this shit for Dean to fucking drown at one in the morning in the middle of nowhere. Where are the fucking angels who say they need him? This can’t be how this ends. He gets to thirty again and he doesn’t even have to tell Castiel to breathe, he knows now, he’s learned. Dean’s chest rises. Sam and Castiel lock eyes and wait.

Dean’s throat gives a soft click and a gurgle and water comes spilling over his lips. Sam immediately pulls his brother toward him, rolling him to side. Dean starts coughing, hacking and every time he tries to breathe in he ends up sputtering water back out.

Sam just keep repeating his name, he can’t think of anything else, _DeanDeanDean_. Dean’s eyes open and the first thing they focus on is Sam’s face, inches from his.

“Hey, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Sam repeats, rubbing his hand over Dean’s shoulder, the other cradling Dean’s face, keeping it from touching the rocks. He’s not sure if he’s talking to Dean or himself.

Dean blinks once slowly, and his lips move slightly.

“C…. Co….co...c” His eyes squeeze shut.

“Cold, I know,” Sam nods, his voice soft. He rocks back on his heels, unzips his jacket and yanks it off, draping it over Dean who lets out a jerky sigh at the warmth and tucks his nose under the fabric. Sam glances upward and over Dean’s shoulder at Castiel, who has a hand clutched hard on Dean’s hip, fingers turning white and the other hand is rubbing Dean’s back up and down the spine reverently. Later on, that visual is going to come back to Sam and it’s going to make sense but right now it’s completely unnoticed as he says only word to the angel. Dean’s alive and awake but he’s not shivering and that’s not good.

“Motel.”

His lips are still forming the letter ‘l’ when he finds himself in the middle of the room with Dean still between him and Castiel.

Sam stands and starts kicking off his shoes, toeing each one off with practiced efficiency. He pulls a knife out of a sheath on his belt and hands it, hilt first toward Castiel who frowns at it.

“It’ll be too hard to get his jeans off and it’s not good to move him too much. Take this and start cutting,” Sam instructs. Castiel gingerly wraps his fingers around the knife and tests its weight once before gripping it tightly. He dips the blade under the waistband of Dean’s jeans and boxers and starts sawing upward. The wet denim and cotton are no match for the killing edge of Sam’s hunting knife. The serrated blade breaks through both layers of fabric easily. While Castiel works his way down Dean’s right leg, denim split from hip to ankle, Sam shucks his own pants, hopping slightly on each foot as he yanks off his socks. Castiel makes quick work of the other leg and then pauses. He slits the laces of Dean’s boots and gently pulls them off.

“Cut his shirts up the middle.”

Castiel is quick; he’s practically done even before Sam is finished given the order.

Sam tugs his shirts up and over his head, the layered garments ending up inside out and tangled somewhere on the floor. In his boxers, he crouches down next to Dean.

“Pull him up to sit.”

Castiel pulls Dean upward and forward, and Dean nearly folds in half. He gives a tired little moan, like a child being pulled from bed in the early morning for a long car trip. Sam scooches in behind Dean, his long legs framing Dean’s torso, and takes off his older brother’s shirts, as if he were undressing himself. He pulls them open at the chest and drags them down the arms while the angel holds Dean in up in a slumped position, one hand on the scar he left on Dean’s shoulder and the other cradling Dean’s head.

Sam folds his feet beneath himself and wraps his arms under Dean’s, coming full circle around the front of Dean’s chest. He makes eye contact with Castiel.

“Grab his legs, we’re going up, to the left and then into bed. Don’t jostle him too much.” Sam waits for Castiel to give a sharp nod and then he counts to three.

Sam’s strong and Castiel is, well, an angel, and even though Dean is half conscious, it’s surprisingly easy for them to lift him off the ground, wet clothes left to sop on the floor. They set him gently on one of the beds and then Sam crawls next to him and stretches out full length, wrapping one of his lean legs over Dean’s as he pulls Dean in close. He reaches behind him and gets one edge of the comforter up and over them,

“Get the blanket from the other bed and wrap us.”

Christ, Dean is _cold_. Sam’s body shivers slightly at the contact and his skin wants to cringe backward from the shock. Dean’s body feels like a block of cement. Bitingly frozen and damp. Sam gets his other arm underneath Dean and tucks Dean’s head under the blanket so that the air he’ll breathe will be warm. He tips his own head down and exhales warm air on the back of his brother’s neck. He feels the other cheap hotel comforter drape over him and then Castiel is efficiently tucking the blanket under him and Dean.

The silence in the room is only punctuated by the occasional rustle of fabric as Sam shifts. He can feel Dean breathing underneath the pressure of his embrace. This is the worst part. The waiting. He can’t make Dean get warm any faster. He can’t just snap his fingers and have it be over.

“What can I do to help?”

Sam looks over at Castiel. The angel is standing at the foot of the bed, hands at his side, eyes worried, staring at the lump of blanket that is Dean.

Sam thinks for a moment. “When he gets warmer, we might put him in the shower. You can make sure we have lots of towels.”

“I can do that.” Castiel affirms. He wisps away in a blink and is back minutes later with large, fluffy, dark blue towels. Sam watches as Castiel sets them down perfunctorily on the edge of the bed. Sam eyes them. They sure as hell aren’t motel towels. Those towels are… well… decadent. And if Castiel can get those…

“Do you know what a hot water bottle is?” he asks. Castiel tilts his head to one side like he’s recalling the information. He blinks once and then nods.

“Of course.”

“Do you think you can get a couple? With hot water already inside?”

Again another pause. “Yes.” And he’s gone again only to return in five minutes carrying four plump hot water bottles. Sam stretches one long arm out from under the covers and Castiel hands him the first one. Sam reaches gingerly around Dean and snuggles the rubber up to Dean’s chest. Dean’s breath hitches slightly, he gives a sigh and then he shivers, making the blankets tremble.

“That’s good, is it not?”

He grabs another of the bottles from Castiel and slides it in after the first.

“Yeah. Shivering is good. It means his body is trying to warm up.”

The third and fourth hot water bottles go on top of Dean’s thighs. Sam feels his brother tuck his head in farther as Dean pulls himself into a tight curl and shivers again.

“When he wasn’t shivering, it’s like his body wasn’t even trying,” Sam explains, his voice taking on the tone of a college instructor. It’s strangely calming to explain it to Castiel, as if Sam’s feelings ( _need Dean, can’t lose Dean, save Dean, DeanDeanDean_ ) get pushed further and further way. His brain distancing itself from the destructible force of his emotions.

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice is raspy and hesitant. Muffled underneath the blankets.

Sam turns his head to speak softly in Dean’s ear. “Yeah, Dean, I’m here. You’re okay.”

“Where?”

“We’re at the hotel now. You’re okay.”

“kay… s’cold.”

Dean’s body gives another violent shiver and his muscles contract, his limbs folding in on themselves.

“I know. We’re gonna get you warm.”

Sam hears Castiel shift from foot to foot. “Is there something else I should do now?”

Sam shakes his head. “This is it. We just wait for him to warm up now.”

Castiel watches him with hawk-like precision. “I would like to stay.”

“Okay.”

He’s surprised when Castiel simply sits down on the side of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets, trench coat flaps hanging loose. “Has this happened to one of you before?”

“Yeah, when we were younger, still with our dad. We were hunting a will o’ the wisp in the woods. I had to stay with dad ‘cause I was still young, like eleven? But dad said Dean was big enough to go around and flank it. Dean got knocked unconscious and we couldn’t find him. When we did, he’d been out all night. It was a cold night.”

“Your father knew what to do,” Castiel states.

“Yeah, and he was always drilling stuff into us, so he made us learn too.”

“What is that sound?” asks Castiel.

“His teeth. Chattering. It’s normal.”

Dean‘s actively shivering now as his temperature comes up. Castiel and Sam sit in silence. Sam still breathing warm air onto Dean’s neck; Castiel watching the two of them. The constant shivering goes on for twenty minutes before starting to subside to near constant, and then regular, and then sporadic.

After another twenty minutes, Dean’s head pops sleepily up and over the blanket, like a groundhog coming out of its hole. He looks around slowly with squinty eyes, blinking, trying to put all the pieces together. He sees Castiel, solemn and stone faced at the edge of the bed. He turns his head and sees Sam’s face way too close. He blinks again, his eyes bright green and shiny. He looks like a petulant four year old, about to start screaming bloody murder. His body gives a shiver and he peeks his head under the blanket.

“Am I fucking naked under here?” He’s grabbing the blanket and pulling it closer for more warmth.

“Sorry, dude,” Sam chuffs, unwrapping his arms from Dean. “Situation called for nudity.” They’ve seen each other naked so many times; it really doesn’t matter to Sam. It would be impossible to be a Winchester and be modest, living in motel rooms and patching each other up on a regular basis. It’s funny though, because it seems to bother Dean, and that’s unusual.

Dean’s eyes dart nervously over to Castiel who is still quiet and studious. Dean shifts a little away from Sam; doesn’t get far because they are wrapped up like prize sausages. He glares at Sam. Dean’s ‘Big Brother Death Glare.’ Sam is so glad to see it, he laughs. Dean scowls. Sam inches back to give him a little space, but stays under the blanket, his gigantic body pumping out heat.

“What happened?” Dean tucks half his face back into the cocoon of the blanket, his eyes shiftily going back and forth over the edge of the duvet, from Cas to Sam, and back again. Suspicious.

“You fell on the ice and it didn’t hold,” Sam says with a shrug.

“Ya, thanks, Sherlock, I got that part. What happened after that?”

“I called Castiel and told him where we were. He got you out of the water and we brought you here.” Sam gives a casual shrug. Dean is alive. Dean is safe. Sam pretty much doesn’t care how it happened and he definitely does not want to relive the night by hashing out the details. Not now when Dean looks about twelve years old, all sleepy and confused, hair sticking out at weird angles.

The adrenaline rush of almost losing Dean is fading and Sam feels giddy in its aftermath. If Dean looks twelve, then Sam feels eight again. He wants to hug Dean and rub his knuckles hard over Dean’s hair, poke him mercilessly in the shoulder and repeat everything Dean says with glee and unbridled fervor until Dean threatens to knock him into the middle of next week. And he wants to laugh with Dean until his face aches and his belly hurts.

“What’s with the face, Sasquatch?” Dean’s grumpy. His eyes are sunken in slightly and wide, dark shadows forming underneath. He grimaces. “My chest hurts.”

“I think I cracked some ribs with the CPR. Sorry, bro.” Although, really, he’s not. He’d crack Dean’s chest in half to save him.

“What the fuck are you talking about, CPR?” Dean mumbles.

“We had to resuscitate you.” Castiel’s voice is low, nearly monotone.

Dean’s big green eyes dart over to the angel. “We?”

“Sam instructed me.”

Dean looks accusingly at Sam and Sam blinks. “What? You know how hard it is to do it by yourself.”

Dean does know but that’s not the fucking point. The point is if Sam and Castiel were both helping with the CPR but Sam is the one apologizing for the ribs then that means that Cas… He stares at the angel.

Sam’s gaze goes back and forth between Dean and Cas. He notices how Castiel has turned slightly toward them, one knee bent up on the mattress and a hand out, resting on… on what Sam’s pretty sure is Dean’s foot.

Sam’s smart. He’s book smart and life smart. You can be one, you can be the other, you can be both and you can be neither. He lucked out. He’s both. But he’s not always the most observant guy around. He’s really, really good at focusing his attention on precise things. Usually, things he’s decided upon: A hunt, a monster, school and on occasion, Dean. He’s looking at Dean now and Dean is… looking at Castiel. Like really looking at him. And Castiel… is looking right back. Like they are having a staring contest and no one is blinking until their eyes dry out.

Dean dips his head back down as a stray shiver works its way through his body. Castiel is still staring.

Sam would do anything for Dean. He feels like maybe he got a little lost for a bit, sucked into the craziness of their lives. The enormity of all of it presses in on him relentlessly. He forgets sometimes how, when he was little, Dean used to comb Sam’s hair carefully when it was wet from the shower. Dean always walked slowly so Sam’s short little legs could keep up. Dean gave him a hat with earflaps when it was cold. Dean sewed shoelaces to his gloves to keep them from getting separated and lost. Dean gave him first choice on whatever Dad bought for lunch. Dean kept him warm, Dean kept him safe, and it was Dean who told him the truth. Dean, Dean, Dean.

The center of everything has been and will always be Dean.

And right now, it’s looking like Dean needs some alone time. Only not so alone.

“You hungry?” Sam asks his brother suddenly.

“Uh…”

“Seriously, I’ll get whatever you want.” Sam slides out from under the covers, tucking Dean back in carefully. Dean eyes him suspiciously. “You need a really big calorie rush after tonight.” Sam finds his jeans discarded on the floor and steps his long legs into them, hitching them up over his hips.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“There’s a Denny’s down the road, I’ll foot it over there and get something to go. You want some candy too?” He feeds his arms into a shirt. It’s inside out but he doesn’t stop to fix it. “C’mon, you can’t say no to candy.” He pushes his hair back and stuffs his feet into his boots not bothering with socks.

“Naw, s’okay. It’s cold out there.”

Sam’s shrugging into his jacket ignoring the slight dampness. “I’m already dressed and halfway out the door, bro.” He pauses, giving Dean a significant look. “It’ll probably take me about an hour. Castiel can make you some hot chocolate or something to tide you over till I get back.”

Dean doesn’t look at Cas, just scrunches up his face. “How?”

Sam grins. “I dunno, but who do you think got the towels and the hot water bottles?” He’s out the door without another word.

Castiel and Dean are left alone in the motel room. Dean has his nose tucked into the blankets. Castiel sits quietly at the foot of the bed.

“Are the water bottles still hot?”

“Um, not really,” Dean mumbles as he starts yanking them out and putting them on top of the bed, wincing slightly as his ribs protest. “S’cool. I’m getting better now.”

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Castiel asks softly. He pronounces it carefully; like it’s got capital letters. Hot Chocolate. He says all the syllables too, instead of saying ‘hot choklut’ like regular people do.

Dean pauses for a second. “We don’t have any.”

“I have watched you many times when Sam is not here. You have a box of the powdered kind in your duffle bag. You make it quite often. I believe that is what Sam was referring to.”

Busted. Like that time that Sam found his super-secret stash of Snickers when they all melted in a gooey pile over one of the sawed offs. Fuck, that was a good gun too. He misses that gun.

“Chocolate is good for you,” he protests awkwardly. “It has those anti-oxygeny things.” He shivers.

“I will make you a cup then, for medicinal purposes.” Castiel pulls one of the foil sachets out of Dean’s bag and reads the instructions carefully. Dean has to admit, it’s kinda cute. Really, it’s just boil water, add water, but Cas is reading over the tiny words like they are sanskrit treasures. He empties it into the mug and Dean hides a chuckle when a small cloud of chocolate powder puffs the angel in the face. He adds water from the sink, and Dean frowns and wonders how Castiel got the instructions wrong. More importantly, how will Dean drink tepid chocolate and pretend it’s good?

Dean sits up and pushes himself back against the headboard, wincing both when his back hits cold fake wood and when his chest gives a protesting flinch. Cas puts the hot chocolate down on the side nightstand and grabs one of Sam’s hoodies out of his bag and hands it over to Dean. Dean feels almost shy when he takes, carefully putting it on without letting the blanket drop a millimeter.

It’s not like he’s shy about his body. He’s not. And when Cas was just some angel, it was no big deal. But now there’s this thing. This thing that neither one of them has really said anything about. The kind of thing where he turns his head to look at Cas and finds that Cas is already looking at him. Really looking at him. Like Dean is the answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. Or like the time he meant to clap Cas on the back, friendly like, but instead of clapping him twice and then dropping his hand, he left his hand on Cas’ back and it might have, maybe, okay it _totally_ did, creep up the angels neck and squeeze. Just a little.

Cas had smiled. Dean saw it before he dropped his hand and turned away awkwardly, he saw Cas’ lips curve upward. Later on that day, after they had put a poltergeist down, Dean’s felt Cas’ hand on the small of his back as the angel followed him out of the house. It felt warm.

Since then there have been other little touches. Nothing overt. Not even really sexual. He doesn’t snap his fingers in front of Cas’ face to get his attention anymore. Now he puts a hand on the angel’s knee. Cas sits next to him sometimes at a diner and he’ll feel the slight pressure of Cas’ hip bump his. It’s like they’re each testing the waters and jumping right out again before they can even declare the water fine.

So, no, he’s not shy about his body. It just feels weird in front of Cas. Now that he thinks that maybe he wants Cas to see it. And that maybe Cas wants to see it too.

It’s takes some maneuvering, modesty and cracked ribs considered, but he gets into Sam’s hoodie, (and fuck does that boy have ridiculous shoulders) without showing so much as a peep of anything below the clavicle. He settles the comforter carefully around his lap, because, hello, still naked underneath, and tucks in the edges. When he finally looks up again, Cas is handing him the mug solemnly. It’s steaming.

“Did you just angel-fu my hot chocolate?”

“Yes.” Cas sits on the side of the bed, closer to Dean than he was before. Dean puts his nose over the steam and blows on the meniscus, loving the way the warmth rushes over his face. He takes a sip and it’s perfect. The mug is too hot for him to keep his hands wrapped around it, but he can pull it close to his chest and feel the heat starting to seep into the hoodie.

“Human bodies are very fragile.”

“Huh?”

“Your bodies. They have very low tolerances.”

“You mean the cold?”

“Sam said this is not the first time you have suffered from hypothermia.”

“Maybe,” Dean says with a careless shrug. It’s not like he keeps a list of all the shit that’s happened to him. Pretty fucking long list if he did.

“It is… distressing that you do not remember.”

“Uh, sorry?” He sips at the hot beverage.

Castiel’s gaze becomes more intense and Dean can’t look away.

“No. You aren’t. You aren’t sorry. You think it’s an acceptable price to pay for the job you do.” Castiel’s voice is a quiet rumble. He does not shout. He does not force the words out. They simply fall out but their fervency makes Dean nervous.

“Uh….”

“You have this absurd belief that it is of no consequence when you throw yourself into dangerous situations.”

“I didn’t throw myself into this situation. A vampire threw me,” Dean protests.

“You know very well of what I speak.”

“Dude!” Dean exclaims and narrows his eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

Cas pauses, looks away for a moment. “I believe I am.” He looks back at Dean. “It was unpleasant to have to resuscitate you. I am no longer a member of the heavenly host and I don’t have…” Castiel frowns, unsure. “I could pull your body from the water but I didn’t know how to make you live. Fortunately, Sam knew and was able to instruct me. But it wasn’t… I am not…”

Dean eyes him warily as he fumbles for words. He’s got no fucking clue what to do or say. Cas is struggling to say something, but Dean doesn’t know what.

“Spit it out,” Dean blurts, unable to stand the pressure.

“Your lips were cold.”

Dean blinks. Okay. Not what he was expecting. “Huh?”

“Your lips,” repeats Cas, not looking at Dean. “They were cold. And blue.”

Dean thinks about that. He thinks about what it’s supposed to mean. Of course his lips were cold. He had just been yanked out of the ice. He thinks about Cas breathing for him while Sam pumped his heart. He sees the picture in his head, but it’s just a picture. Like coming into a movie halfway in and you really don’t know the characters so you don’t care what happens.

But then… he thinks about how he would feel if it hadn’t been him. If it had been Sam or… Cas. And it’s like someone has a rope tied to heart and just yanked on it. Hard. He’s thought about kissing Cas. Once or twice, okay hourly. And he thinks about how he’d feel if at the first press, Cas’ lips were cold. Dead.

He puts the mug down on the nightstand. His hands hover in mid air for a second, before he nervously reaches out and tugs on the lapel of Cas’ coat. Cas looks at Dean’s fingers first and then up to Dean’s face.

“My lips aren’t cold now.”

They are still for a moment. Dean leaning slightly forward toward Cas, Castiel tipped in toward Dean. Dean’s watching Castiel as his blue eyes move from Dean’s gaze down to Dean’s lips then back up again. The angel shifts in closer, and Dean closes his eyes right before Cas presses his lips to Dean’s.

Cas’ lips are warm and slightly chapped. Dean’s probably aren’t that much better. He feels the bed dip slightly as Cas places a hand on the other side of Dean’s hip and rests some of his weight there, enabling him to lean forward a bit more. Dean’s surprised because Cas? Is a really good kisser. He was _not_ expecting that.

Dean was expecting maybe Cas’ teeth to hit his or that it might end up being a bit sloppy or something. He thought their first kiss would be an awkward, weird, chaste thing they had to get out of the way before they could move on. He definitely _wasn't_ expecting the hot slip of Cas’ tongue against his lips. Suddenly Dean feels a bit out of his element here. He opens his mouth a little and darts his tongue out against Cas’ lips in return. He feels the angel’s hand slide over his neck and around the back of his skull as he mouths at Dean’s lips and holy hell, when and how did Cas learn to kiss like that? Cas’ lips are moving assuredly over Dean’s, hot and firm. Dean shivers a little.

Cas pulls back a little. “Are you cold?”

Definitely not. Especially not with Cas’ hands still around his neck, fingers squeezing lightly.

“Uh, no, I’m good. I, uh… ” He chuckles a little nervously. “Where did you learn that?”

Cas frowns. “Was it not pleasant?” He’s wary.

“No, no, it was… uh… good. It was great, actually,” Dean stammers. “Really great.”

Castiel’s shoulders relax. “After our excursion to the den of iniquity, I decided I needed more knowledge in intimate matters.”

“What's that mean?”

“I’ve been reading.” Cas shifts a little and pulls out a book from his inside pocket. Dean takes one look at the cover and tells himself it’s not nice to laugh at the angel who saved your life and kissed you. He stares at the bare-chested, longhaired hero in tight pants bending in what is surely a physics defying position, holding a woman with large boobs stuffed into a really low cut dress. Her head is thrown back and she’s baring her throat, clearly for the taking.

“The writing is good, although the plot is somewhat predictable.” Castiel states.

Dean snorts and has to stifle his chuckle as his lungs press against his tender ribs. He hands the book back.

“I’ve also been watching television.”

“Where?”

“In the motels you and Sam rest at.”

“You’ve been watching motel television?” He’s horrified. He _knows_ what’s on TV at motels and it isn’t always regular TV. He’s watched quite a few…movies himself.

“Yes. There is quite a… variety in these matters. I have been amassing information. I tried to err on the more conservative side of what I have learned.”

Just thinking about what that could mean makes Dean’s heart (and lower body) give a pleasant zing. He leans forward, ignoring the small protest of pain his chest gives and pulls at Cas’ neck a little. He’s had worse pain in his life and nowhere near the promised benefits. “C’mere.”

Castiel tips toward him willingly, coming close enough that they can’t actually look at each other without crossing their eyes. He looks down at Cas’ lips.

“I figure we have about thirty minutes before Sam comes back. Why don’t you show me some of what you’ve learned?” Dean says the words quietly and watches Cas’ lips curl into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Blame my Buffy the Vampire Slayer days, I totally forgot in SPN, Vampires can't be staked! what a flub....


End file.
